


Weird Science

by Thassalia



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Big Bag of Weed, Disposable Plastic Goods Found at the Dollar Store, F/M, Friends Don't Let Friends Experiment On Themselves Alone, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Recreational Drug Use, Science Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6662593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thassalia/pseuds/Thassalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drugs, friendship, Jethro Tull, people saying fuck, the Urban Paradise, and Tony Stark takes a trip to the Dollar Store.  Your basic Saturday afternoon.  Post CA:TWS, pre-AOU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weird Science

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr prompt request for "Science Bros and a big bag of weed. With bonus Nat.”

“You really think you’re gonna find the answer in a 20 year old notebook…”

“Aha!” 

Bruce stops when Tony holds up a black and white graph-paper notebook in triumph. In his other hand is a vacuum-sealed bag of… “Is that pot?”

“Oh my god, you’re such a fucking hippy.”

“Is it?”

Tony turns it over in his hand, sniffs, then looks for scissors.

The whooshy noise of vacuum being breached helps the identification; Bruce can smell it from where he’s standing.

“Twenty-five year old weed,” Stark confirms.

The box he’d pulled both items from had been carefully sealed up, part of a shipment from a Stark Industries California facility undergoing renovation. That box, and others, had been sitting in a stack in the back of the lab for months, but a challenge to one of Tony’s earliest designs had finally sent him digging through them, looking for a prototype sketch.

He shakes the bag, sniffing earnestly, looks at Bruce. “I’m not really sure why this was with the other boxes. All my other MIT stuff was at the house, and thus now at the bottom of the ocean.”

“So your remaining college memorabilia now consists of a bunch of ancient theoretical mathematics and decades old marijuana?” Bruce doesn’t mean to laugh, but it’s kind of hilarious.

Also, it’s more than he’s got left.

Stark taps his chin, eyes the baggie. “Think it’s still good?”

“Well, light, heat and moisture are the enemies right? It was hermetically sealed, which I’ve got other questions about…”

“Jarvis…” Tony interrupts, and then says “Not you,” in response to the AI’s “Yes, sir?”

Bruce shrugs. “Theoretically, yeah. It should be fine.”

Tony muses, “He must’ve sealed it with the fruit dryer...wouldn't have thrown it away, but wouldn't have encouraged me...”

“I can understand a reluctance to encourage you…”

Tony makes a “whatever” face.

“Jarvis.”

This time, the imperative is clear.

“Sir?”

“Wanna scan this? See if it’s degraded? Laced with anything?”

They both wait.

“I cannot confirm the quality or the deterioration, sir, but it’s purely cannabis. A mix of indica and sativa strains. Moderate quality.”

“Thanks buddy.” He looks at Bruce. “You know, there’s really only one way to tell.”

“It’s barely noon.”

“What’s your point?”

***

It’s not like Bruce doesn’t have any experience being high. He’d spent a decade in a university environment, and even as a reserved kid, younger than a lot of his peers, he’d had nights of nights of pot and patchouli and existentialism. But there hadn’t been a lot of room in his brain for those types of external distractions, already so wound up with his own research, by the secrets of the physical universe. As a scientist, and not a philosopher, he was after answers, not more unanswerable questions.

And after the accident, he’d tried different things - different drugs, combinations. Found a few that calmed him, but they also often left him paranoid, sleepy or in a dreamlike haze. None of which solved the secondary problem that his primary over-sized issue had caused - he could becalm himself with drugs, or maintain the hyper-awareness necessary to survive on the run, but not really both.

Tony digs back in the box, and pulls out a packet of ancient rolling papers. He grins at Bruce, and that’s all it takes to give in to the experiment.

Bruce never had a best friend as a kid, or really as an adult, Betty aside. No one to conspire with. And now, in Tony, he has a partner in crime. A perfect, volatile match of curiosity and cleverness with the brains and tools to explore the all the bad ideas that came along (and some of the good ones). 

And no one could make a bad idea sound more like a revelation than Tony Stark.

This box of random memorabilia, carefully wrapped and stored by one of the steady adult presences in Stark’s early life, was a reminder that as different as their upbringings had been, certain things tied them together -intelligence, isolation, experimentation, growing up too fast, and the few people and moments that had countered those challenges. 

If Tony wants to to tap into that memorabilia, Bruce is willing to help.

Tony has already rolled a small joint, licking the paper.

“Alright, hippy,” he says, and holds it up. “God, it’s been years.”

He uses the butane lighter, takes a deep drag as the paper crackles. He immediately starts to cough. Hands over the joint, as he waves his hands in front of his face.

“Your turn.”

Bruce breathes the smoke in deeply, feels it fill his lungs, the burning scent reminding him of the first few months with Betty, who had liked to smoke occasionally before sex when they were poor grad students. All that had stopped with research grants, then the government contracts, but he distinctly remembers those slow, dreamy, endless hours of kissing, touching, slow, intense fucking and deep sleep, the headache the next day. The occasional paranoia, and stumbling home alone, pissy and high.

He releases the smoke, coughing. It’s harsh, more bitter than he remembers.

“Jesus,” Tony chokes, “this tastes like shit. How did we smoke this?”

“We didn’t know any better,” Bruce says, then hiccups.

“You know,” he says, considering, “there’s a better way to test this.”

***

“We have chocolate chips, but no cocoa powder.”

“So we’ll make cookies.”

Tony gets out butter and flour, and Bruce shakes his head. He can feel the effects already. His hands feel swollen, skin on a little too tight, but it’s...pleasant. Like a hit of oxygen. He feels remarkably clear.

“Coconut oil is the recommended method now.”

The first batch goes in the oven, and Tony looks over the mess they’ve made.

“We should eat these, go look at the stars.”

“We’re not actually in college any more, Tony. Also, it’s 2 p.m. On a Saturday.”

“You got a better idea?”

He does.

***

Tony holds up the prototype. His head feels a little thick still, but he doesn’t mind. It’s better than a hangover, certainly better than concussion aftercare.

Bruce tilts his head, presses the button. The simple scanning mechanism works like the prototype had suggested.

“It’s not our finest work,” he says. And Tony agrees. It lacks his usual elegance, but then, they’d been following instructions 17 year old him had written down in a composition book. They were on PAPER for god’s sake.

“Still, it’s enough to prove to that jackass that I made it first.”

Bruce grins at him, and Tony’s inexplicably happy for a moment. Building shit in the basement, talking music and space and girls. Okay, so they hadn’t talked about any of those things, mostly they’d been bullshitting about academics, but still. And sure, they’re in a state of the art research lab in a home for wayward superheroes, but other than that? It’s so normal, so other people’s normal, that it gives him pause.

It’s the guy across from him, really. Tony never has to explain his leaps of logic to Bruce, never has to break down the basics, apologize for his choices, his interests. His life. Bruce accepts him for who he is, and sure, some of it is the zen master crap that Bruce is constantly trying to access, the calm in the storm, but mostly, Tony thinks he just digs having someone to play with too. Someone who gets him.

“You know, your fancy legal department probably had that covered. You didn’t need to prove it yourself.”

“I hate liars,” Tony says, more vehemently than he means to. But it’s true.

Bruce is still coasting along on enough weed to make him philosophical. “So, Natasha working for you was…”

“We had some moments,” he agrees sourly.

“She’s given me what I’m sure were expurgated versions.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, fiddles with the circuit board in his hand, “You know, if you’re gonna get all red and dreamy every time you say her name, maybe you should finally do something about it.”

“We’re not talking about this,” Bruce says, for the millionth time, and Tony rolls his eyes. “Besides, I know you don’t approve.”

“I approve of you getting laid,” he says, which is also true. “I think...there are safer choices. Easier choices. But, who wants easy?”

“There aren’t any choices,” Bruce says, and the humor fades out of his eyes, and Tony feels like an asshole. Gives his friend what he can.

“And if there were?”

Bruce shrugs, rubs his knuckles, and Tony sighs. “Let’s go check on the cookies.”

***

The umbrella is rapidly proving unnecessary as the sun sets on a perfect Indian Summer day. But, it seemed a shame to take it down after they’d spent so much time setting it up.

The first thing Tony says when he sees Pepper’s jaw drop is, "Seriously, it was for science."

“Where did you even get plastic lawn chairs? We have pool furniture. Beautiful pool furniture,” she trails off, really looks at the two of them and the lawn chair and the plastic baby pool and the umbrella. 

Bruce waves at her, and Tony grins, “Hi baby. How was the naked art film?”

Pepper’s really stuck on the lawn chairs.

She takes a hold of the tag they didn’t bother to remove. "Tony, did you go to Walgreens and buy these?"

Stark shakes his head. "Dollar Store."

"99 Cent Store," Bruce corrects.

"Pedant," Stark scoffs.

"Dilettante," Bruce counters.

Pepper continues to stare at them. "You actually went inside the Dollar Store?"

"There's amazing shit in there. But Mr. Cranky Pants wouldn't let me buy a pocket hose."

That makes Bruce laugh so hard he nearly rolls off the chair, snorffling something about already having a pocket hose.

Pepper taps her foot, and cocks her head.

“Are you high?”

It’s possibly meant as a rhetorical question, but they both giggle. It’s been happening a lot.

Pepper’s eyes widen, "Oh my god, where did you even get weed?"

Tony shakes his head, “It’s New York, baby. You can get anything delivered.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, so we didn’t have it delivered. But we could have.”

“I will be back,” she says.

“Bring the cookies,” Tony hollers. She raises up her hand, middle finger extended.

They look at each other, and Tony shakes his head mournfully. "I think we're in trouble."

"Are we gonna get suspended?" Bruce snorts. "We're of age."

"Still illegal."

"You're the one worried about legal?"

Tony digs out his phone, thumbs through his playlist. His eyes light up. "Oh man, Jethro Tull, you have to hear this."

Ten minutes later, or maybe an hour, it's kind of hard to tell after getting lost in the flute solo, the reinforcements arrive.

"Ah, Pep, you called the cops on us."

"Oh, please," she says, and co-opts one of the extra lawn chairs. She holds up a mason jar with a lid and a straw. She also has the second plate of cookies.

"Natasha made drinks, and we've come to taunt you through your inevitable come down."

"That," Natasha says, unable to completely fend off her smirk, "is true." 

She's got her own mason jar. "Also, did they have a run on summer stuff? What's with all this?"

Stark deflects, "Bruce wouldn't let me get the pocket hose."

"And how is that relevant to the hipster cups or the sun tea pitcher?"

Pepper settles a cashmere blanket over her knees.

“We decided we wanted to go to the beach. Except we didn’t want to ride the subway…”

Bruce interjects, “Too noisy, too crowded…”

“And neither of us thought we should drive…”

“For obvious reasons…”

“And it seemed like too much effort to have someone drive us…”

“Plus, we decided sand wasn’t really what we wanted…”

“And then we realized we could get a pool, and pretend…”

“And Tony had never been inside the drug store…”

“Because of everything being delivered…”

“And then once we got there, it was… a magical wonderland of summer themed crap. So we bought it.”

"We won't let Tony go to Target," Pepper explains to Natasha, as if it explained everything. "So he's never been exposed to the mildly disposable goods."

"I'm making my name in green technology," Stark protests. "I can't be seen buying plastic crap."

"But the mason jars," Natasha prods.

Bruce smiles at her warmly, “I liked them,” he said. “They seemed festive.” 

She grins back, and hands over her jar. He takes a sip.

“That’s really good,” he says, and hands it back to her, still smiling.

“Ugh, turn it off, green bean. Romanoff, make him stop smiling. Shoot him or something.”

“I think Bruce looks adorable when he’s flirting.” Pepper has a cookie in her hand, and Tony’s eyebrows are about to come off his face in delight.

“Pepper, I've already forbidden the flirting twice today. He smiled at the girl in the dollar store. That's how we got the beach umbrella. I'm pretty sure they're not supposed to do that. Also I think it cost more than a dollar.”

He stage whispers, “We only paid a dollar.”

Natasha laughs, and Bruce can’t actually wipe the smile off his face, even when Tony kicks his chair.

“Flirting with the sales clerk, doc?”

He shakes his head.

“It's an unfortunate side effect of the drugs. It makes me smile a lot, too much. My cheeks will hurt like a son of a bitch in the morning.”

“You need a license for that thing,” Stark says accusingly. “It should be corny, but no, it’s all happy and charming and panty-dropping.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow,”Your panties are still on.” 

Tony sticks out his tongue and Bruce turns to her.

“Oh god,” she says, “Tony may be right. I've never seen you smile like that. I might want to come sit in your lap, Bruce.”

“Hey!” Stark protests, “I have a lap. And a mason jar.” He’d stolen Pepper’s.

“And I have a cookie,” she counters.

She offers one to Natasha, who waves it away. “No point,” she says, “it doesn’t have any effect.”

“Cookies,” Clint appears out of nowhere, startling only Tony, and takes the cookie from Pepper’s hand. He waggles his phone at Natasha. “Thanks for the head’s up.”

“Altered,” Nat says, casually. Clint also has a mason jar. He lifts an eyebrow.

“THC,” she clarifies, and he takes a giant bite, and Bruce smiles at him too, and he says, “Whoa, doc, that is dangerous,” and starts to unbuckle his belt.

“Barton,” Tony barks at him, and Clint laughs, eats the cookie. 

“Takes more than that, Stark,” he says.

Then to all of them, “Mandatory drug testing with SHIELD, so, you know, not so much with the recreational drug use. But this is pretty good.”

“It was for science,” Tony says impatiently. “We weren’t just fucking around.”

Bruce clarifies, “We were digging through a box of Tony’s things from college. The pot was at the bottom. Hermetically sealed.”

“So you decided to test it.” There’s a low thread of laughter in Natasha’s voice, and she shifts her chair around so she can tuck one of her booted feet under Bruce’s thigh.

Stark nods vigorously.

“And you signed off on this, doc?”

Bruce raises a shoulder. “Didn’t think it would hurt anything.”

He turns back to Natasha. “Did you like the movie?” He fiddles with the hem of her jeans, and then cups her calf, casually stroking. 

She sips her drink, hands it back over to him to share, ignores Tony blatantly staring at them, takes it back.

“It was very conceptual,” she says. “Antonioni always is. But yes, I liked it.”

“Naked Europeans,” he says, mouth quirking up.

“Something like that,” she says, and grins lazily at him.

“Nat can’t get high,” Clint says, “And where’d you get the lawn chairs?”

The dollar store discussion repeats, and Natasha adds, “It’s not that I’ve never been high, but THC doesn’t work on me. Doesn’t mean I haven’t spent plenty of time infiltrating opium dens, hash houses…”

“College dorms,” Clint interjects.

“Once a college dorm,” she says, “Yes.”

“I think I'd like to hear that story,” Bruce murmurs.

“It did involve a lot of white t-shirts and cut offs,” she said, “hair in a ponytail, tortoiseshell glasses. Beer from a keg and late nights in the library.”

He swallows heavily. “Co-eds were never my thing,” he says, “Even when I was one, but…”

“Don’t worry. I was a PhD student in Art History. Nothing shady about it. Go ahead and fantasize.”

The look he gives her is smoldering, and she bites her lip, sips delicately, not breaking eye contact, and Tony kicks the chair again.

“Stop that.”

“Okay,” Pepper says, “Clearly you need a distraction.”

She gets up, and squashes into the lawn chair with Tony, and Clint hooks his heel on her empty chair, and drags it over to be his footstool.

“You really had weed in a box for years, Stark. This much weed?”

He gestures at the plate of cookies.

“You say that like you’ve never packed your drugs away and forgotten about them. Also, we didn’t use it all. They’re not that strong.”

Bruce snorts, and catches Clint’s eye and they both giggle.

“What?” Stark protests, “Stop it, what?”

Clint shakes his head.

“Just...you’ve never been poor Tony.”

“Even back then, that would have cost me a week’s worth of meals,” Bruce says, “maybe more.”

Clint nods. “Too much dough to just lose track of.”

Tony thinks about that. “I went to Europe right after graduation, just left everything,” he says. “For someone else to clean up.”

There’s silence, and it’s Natasha who breaks it.

“You’re the exception that proves the rule, Stark. The leopard who changes his spots.”

He gives her a surprised look of gratitude, and Pepper curls into him, genuine affection that she rarely shares with the rest of them.

Bruce looks at them fondly, doesn’t notice Natasha’s gaze resting softly on him.

“What happens if there’s an emergency?” Pepper is suddenly serious.

“Steve’s playing cards with the guys at the VA. He and Nat can handle it.”

“Nice,” she says, but there’s no real heat.

“Take it easy with the cookie, Pep.”

“Oh please, I went to Berkeley Tony. I’ve probably eaten more pot brownies than you have. Pot cookies, I guess. It always made me horny and creative. I wrote some epically terrible poetry.”

Tony's eyebrow's waggle again, and he reaches for the plate, reconsiders.

“Maybe we should save some cookies for Steve. Think he’s ever been high?”

“They had weed in the ‘30s.”

“That doesn’t mean Steve ever encountered it.”

“Ever encountered what?”

Steve is wearing a bomber jacket and his VA outfit - half old man, half hipster, and Pepper takes the plate out of Tony's hand, and passes it to Steve. There are four cookies left.

“Marijuana,” Pepper says, and it sounds so serious that she and Clint giggle. The sun has set, and it’s starting to get cold.

“We had reefer in the ‘30s,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Jeez, I didn’t live under a rock.”

That sets Tony off, and he points at the cookies. “Knock yourself out, you hepcat you.”

It doesn’t do much for Steve, just makes him a little mellow. He sits on the ground, and lets Tony play the entirety of “Thick as a Brick” for him, while Pepper orders pizza.

“That is a lot of flute,” Steve says finally.

No one disagrees.

***

They take the party inside, eventually, Natasha making more Moscow Mules with the artisanal ginger beer Steve had bought a few days prior in a fit of nostalgia. 

Tony doesn’t say anything as Natasha sits on the couch next to Bruce, swallowing his taunt as Clint clambers over to her other side, squashed up against the arm of the sofa, stocking feet in her lap. It does nothing to halt the casual arm brushing, the pressing into personal space.

Pepper is leaning dreamily on one arm, reminiscing about her year abroad in Rome, sharing favorite spots with Natasha.

“There’s a gelateria,” she says, “Della Palma, near Piazza Navona.”

Natasha nods, “The best gelato,” she agrees.

“The last time I was there,” Pepper reminisces, “well, I was too busy to get gelato. I shouldn’t make that mistake again.”

“Same assignment,” Natasha says casually, but there’s a note there, something darker. “Same glasses. Same drug ring. Better clothes in Rome, though.”

Bruce runs his thumb over his lip.

“Did it have a happy ending?” he asks softly.

She shakes her head. “Not so much.”

There’s a long silence, and they are all deeply aware of Pepper’s presence, the civilian in the room. Enough so, in fact, that Tony sits up from his place sprawled on the carpet in front of her chair, protective.

But of all of them, Pepper is the least delicate about Natasha’s past. Her words and deeds, this one included Bruce is sure, spilled all over the world now. Natasha doesn’t hide these things, nor does she speak of them often, and Bruce wonders about the steady friendship the two women have built, the CEO and the spy.

And truth be told, Pepper is as much an Avenger as any of them, for all her heroics happen in a boardroom.

“I was there during the war,” Steve says, breaking the silence. “I’d like to go back.”

He can feel the tiny hitch as Natasha relaxes, breathes through the momentary tension. “Well,” she says, “we should make that happen.”

“Florence, too,” Steve says, and the conversation continues, breezing past the hiccup.

Bruce listens to the way Natasha talks about the world, about the beauty of the places she’s been, and the ways she’s carefully leaving out the washes of blood and death she’s left behind, and he hopes that some of her memories are actually as rosy as the pictures she paints, of coastal sunrises, and marble statues, delicate glasses and decadent meals.

He brushes the back of her hand with his when Tony tells an outrageous story of winding up naked in the Uffizi, and the look she gives him is enough for his cheeks to flush. He can still feel the low thrum of the drugs, wonders how much of this ease, this mellow yearning, belongs to them, and how much to the warmth of the remarkable woman next to him.

He finds that he doesn’t much care about the source at this moment, bound in gratitude for the chance to experience it.

***

Pepper calls it first, kicking them out with a stretch of her arms over her head.

“I will regret that cookie tomorrow,” she says, “when I get on a plane for California, but, well…”

She smiles at all of them, sunny and reflective, “Thank you for the science experiment.”

Natasha helps her carry the dishes to their kitchen, and Tony catches Bruce’s arm. Mostly now, he’s tired and mellow and sunburned, but it’s been a good day.

“Thanks,” he says, and Bruce catches him loosely by the wrist, puts his arm half around Tony. It’s a protective gesture, and it touches him. 

“Weed makes you all handsy,” he says, hand clasping the back of Bruce’s neck. “So, maybe take the rest of that doctor feel-gooding and put it to good use.”

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively towards the kitchen.

“Oh christ,” Clint says from the couch. “Just kiss already.”

“Out,” Tony says, and points, but Bruce is unbothered.

“We covered this ground earlier,” he says, lets go of Tony.

“Despite your Eyeoring, you’ve got choices, green bean.”

Bruce sets his mouth, but his eyes stray to Natasha in the kitchen, wiping off her hands with a dish towel.

“C’mon, doc,” she says, “I’ll walk you home. We can drop Clint off.”

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“God, you’re belligerent. This is the real reason they won’t let you take drugs.”

“Not the brain cells?”

“Maybe the brain cells.”

Something passes between them, sly and guarded, and Clint snorts, rolls off the couch.

***

Bruce leans against the doorway to his suite, loose-limbed, relaxed in a way she rarely sees him.

“Really,” she says, “What was this all about today?”

“Temporary reprieve,” he says, brushes along the v of her t-shirt, gentle and deliberate, takes one of the curls that’s fallen over her cheek between his fingers. “Sometimes you experiment on yourself and it doesn’t end in disaster.”

She chuckles, and it’s a sound that runs through him like lightening, hot and gorgeous and dangerous.

“You’re pretty charming like this,” she grins.

“I like that you find me charming.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“What if I said yes?” he says. “Asked you to come in.”

“You're compromised." There's just a shade of regret in her tone, enough to let him see, enough to prove she's serious.

He tucks the errant strands of hair behind her ear, and she has to fight against the desire to curl into him, anyway, press him against the doorway. “Just...what if?”

Her voice is low, ”You’re the one who keeps halting that train.”

“I don't...want to be,” he says softly. “It’s just...I can’t trust myself.”

She closes her eyes, and he strokes her cheek, tilts up her chin.

“So there’s your answer.”

“What if I changed my mind?”

She smells warm and enticing, like ginger, and the dusky floral hints of her perfume and her skin, different than the work day battle scents of clean soap and gun powder.

“Tonight? You'll regret it. And I don't think...I don't want to be a regret. You have enough of them.”

“So just tell me then,” he says, hates the note in his voice that sounds like he’s begging. “If it were different.”

She reaches out, draws her thumb gently over his bottom lip, and he kisses the pad, turns into her open palm, pressing his mouth to the center. She cups his cheek, leans in, and brushes her mouth against his - so sweet and warm, electric, and she holds the kiss for barely longer than a heartbeat.

“G’night,” she says, fingers trailing along his arm, not letting herself look back until she's at the end of the hallway.

He's still watching her, eyes fierce with want, thumb pressed to his mouth, other hand in his pocket.

He looks young, beautiful, untroubled by anything but teasing desire and a need to sleep it off, and she takes that to heart, takes her leave with a lift of her hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on tumblr.


End file.
